Green Ink # 1 – Crummy Weather


Hot wind gusts pull yellow leaves off undressing branches ~ the city is whooshing in the wind, all pieces hit with airborn particles – sometimes it accumulates in the corner of my eye and I have to stop and rub. Eyes like peppermints. Here at Cloudburst, I write poems because I can’t find a job, and I drink craft beer because I can’t write a poem. The wind blows across everything and everyone and connects us in our decisions to wear windbreakers.


Iron & Wine in the room of lights mentions live-tracking human-sounding music as the mission. Not that computer music is bad, he continued, we are simply not that. A level headed interview with Kevin Cole and Beam talks as soft and articulate as he sings, his singing being a direct reflective quality of who he is. With his new musical surroundings, his emphasis on “good things” as opposed to paralysis based on seeing red and labelling it as red. Writing about the acceptance and rejection of the home town.



poor sister had something established now gone or going – a house, some vehicles and a job, two dogs, a cat ~ the depressing deconstruction of a life just barely felt to be lived in. Take down the posters, move the vehicles one at a time with the help of mom, introduce the homelessness again. See: restlessness. See: lack of direction.



sleeping or searching in blue scale & perfectly so. I can pour beer or sell carabiners. I can talk caramelized oak or push clearance Patagonia. I can sleep all day and rely on the passive magic of a sent resume to do the work for me. Is it working out there beyond the offered visibility of this depressing fucking fog? Is it getting closer to somewhere? Center?



She has to pack her bedroom into boxes, I have to find a job.
She has to cancel her love, I have to close out my tab.
She rents out a storage unit, I stay perpetually drunk.
Imagining her unsettling after nesting in that remodeling home
for this amount of months is unsettling.
So I order something with a crushing hop profile
and listen to the wind thrash
the loose parts of the city around
which includes my sister & I.

Blue Ink # 2 – a dissociative soundtrack

Conversations on the bus are limited by a quiet decency to get along – to make no one any less comfortable than already and the tactic includes going deeply internal, into the glowing screen and headphones – put off an I get along alright vibe, thank you & thankfully not cold enough to blast the defrosters and make us sweaty, make us more uncomfortable than already.

This feels familiar and uncomfortable – anonymous, surrounded by people who care for each other, love like a credit card kept open, “enjoy your promotion.” What is doing the feeling is a sense of suspenseful unwelcome. I know I can expand within Seattle and become an interactive body among the other connected bodies…. (?) …. clearly not enough. Do you know who is hiring around here?

For this to work best it requires cleaner edges, and consistency in font size. Style must be constant enough – it is the same night confined and tessellated here after-all. Consider this a timely prototype and later patterning colors and statements and font size variable based on the importance of what is said.

We are deep within the season of edges, a thin channel walled in by socked-in coasts, like I’m in a rowboat with you and you are unaware of the dangers. Fins multiply, wind picks up – so drink up, have fresh hop while it lasts, love your freedom, assert your empathy, we will be alright, this boat is endless. I did not mean to frighten you with what you avoid.

The choice between noise-punk and indie goddess is decided with a vegan blt. It is ten past 8. Both shows start at 8. The noise punk National play last, giving me time, plenty, while they chop and slice and pile fries, toss dirty knives into a bowl of soapy water, change the radio station, shoot the shit for a minute… it will be a longer show in this manner. It will take me deeper.

(something weird happens here supposedly)

Jesus, I’m not going back there. Instead heading up to see noise at Chop Suey while this prose snowflake unfolds. If you are reading this, understand it as meta, and know this electric navy blue as the beginning of an idea. To fill little spaces, folded, of a full piece of paper, lined, torn out of a notebook, once straightened out and framed, what a nightly kaleidoscope it will make.

Disconnected to the mechanical metaphor of interlocking parts of the city with fiery clarity, this is something I know too well, this disconnection. It will take great effort to enact redemption – moxie, art. The visuals are all there, the substance is out or not quite in – the beauty of a dissociative soundtrack – a glitchy silent film – an anxious pull toward meaning, toward fulfilling work (no one is hiring, the (…?…) is violently competitive.) “Keep up your spirit,” says a whiskey label.

now only night driving for fun

I let myself go. The last day of socially destructive night-work, I have developed a mantra of disappearance when there are awkward formalities of goodbyes to go through. True departures imply ambiguity, an uncertain future friendship. The same elements will never be formed in the same shape. There will not be these little pockets of passing hallway, stairway, freight elevator talk, jokes and all, about the squirrel in the living room, or the acupuncture gone wrong, or the crime novel section of the book store which I realized must’ve been a lead-in to the wrapped packages with a fiction trilogy with newsreel crime influences and two different sized bottles of whiskey to send me off into the oblivion of my own new machinations. They machinery of my life set into motion by a crankshaft of random opportunities leapt into at the speed of gerbils in their plastic running wheels.

I let it go. There it was, I peeled off my name from my cubby hole, where the sunflower seeds had been sitting for weeks untouched, the “advanced uncorrected proofs” of maybe-to-be released novels, some nonfiction, sit in transition between the bookshelves in the lounge and the general books office – to my apartment, my clutches, my shelves, my people. There are magazines without covers. Mostly poetry, some music and science. I stole entertainment out from under the noses of the daylight employees. I am there at night assessing their depressing cubicles with Jordan. I am there counting the greasy fingerprints on their computer screens (old dells). I count the neglected plants. The calendars stuck perpetually one month in the past. The plastic in the compost bin. Their plastic. The honor rule to drinking cups of coffee or tea that no one honors. The “salt-death” of the soup. The soup that David said would take “three years off my life.” I once had three of those little salty soup packets one after another in a feverish, bored, hunger. A hunger without the wallet to feed itself on the grocery store outlet world. A man comes up begging for a ride to safeway, a ten dollar bill, a hand-out of any kind, a buy back next friday, a woman and two children calling for dinner, an inability to decide a recourse other than denial and speeding off.

I have to let it go. I gave a man a scone out of the basket in the lounge at Tacoma. There are sometimes little candies or pastries left in there, probably for the morning crew with a pot of fresh coffee. I would eat them because my job was sad and lonely and sometimes a blueberry muffin glazed in poppyseed honey could help with the yawning windshield loneliness of driving three or four hours in the cold dark. The sadness of having to choose music that will keep you awake and from falling into the median with dreams of iridescent glass spheres. Inability to decide. Focus too hard on this song and I’m put in a trance. Focus too hard on that song and I’m put into a trance. Any song that has an ounce of “whimsy” in the lyrics cannot hold up to the tired, focused consciousness of my tunnel vision. The 10 months of driving never taught me more about how to do it better but probably just taught me how to completely tune out. I’ll have to think about it a bit more.

Suddenly Realized I’m Leaving Seattle

I have grown myself into a nervous laugh – a testy pressing of depressing recipes. Circulate the bad blood back into the coronary and let yourself be worshipped by other anxious wrecks of young adults. Dancing sordidly to the music of “gloom,” “goth,” “shoe gaze,” and marvel at the meaninglessness of categories aside from how their dispersal in our minds reveal human frailty. We must compartmentalize broad swaths of the universe into jewelry boxes or else be crushed by an avalanche of fire agates.

I increased my days (nights) at work for the final 7 days of mine at the University Bookstore. I threw in the towel and got no congratulations but drank a few beers and then wine and had a huge cigar with a football sticker on the outside. Distracted again. Lost into a book and then an idea. I told myself I had to work every night to prepare my wallet for Denver. With this, strangely, I have given up on certain important social ties through Seattle. With the city itself even. I gave up on the Arboretum Hangs, the Golden Gardens Existential Crisis Festival, the Georgetown Wanderings, a solid Saturday/Sunday market perusal, some big history trees, the undercity ghost tour, a few native kisses… I have given my little evenings to a company policy I do not believe is functional or worthwhile. There is no reason for the overnight delivery. No one thanks you – and often are there senseless repetitions. There is a need for a clean break, a free day. An opening to take.

I’m leaving Seattle for a little while and now it all hurts openly.

Will I return? Will I survive long enough? to ever sit with the bronze firemen in Pioneer Square or fix the bike tire to make it through the interurban spiderwebs… the network of associations I’ve had and let fade, the old buildings groaning with their untapped mysteries, their generational history, the history of the forest the buildings were made with, the history the of soil those trees grew on. All of the trees in the city. All of the time it takes to learn to love a place or a person.

Instant love is cheap and untrustworthy. A feeling of unpalatable shame involved afterward. I cannot clearly define how this geography has treated me mostly because I do not feel well-steeped in the seven hills, in the lakes and rivers and dams and the Puget Sound Marine Ecosystem. The Seabirds and the local arthouse indie rock shows. Gallery openings and forgotten people. Sunlight coming in the window teasing me into wanting rain to fall again.

In school, I did not have enough time to adequately explore the benefits of a captive bus pass. I tell myself through retrospective guilt, that I would have performed differently given a second chance. Well, there are no second chances, only new ones, and most lessons learned occur too late, in a sick little paradox, to learn of a mysterious bridge through the Ravenna Park woods and then to never have time to find it until returning years later and suddenly remembering because it is not all lost there. Just desolate and self-destructive retrospective regret. A corrosive material. Given free time to achieve my exploratory goals, I have settled into some other self. I read some books, hikes some trails, drove to Portland a few times, bought a plane ticket to Denver, recording some guitar music, wrote much more guitar music, began and halted the compilation of writings into a sort of cohesive unit, organized by mental geography or topic and then edited to make more sense, the confessional and the abstract and the words flowing out without a filter or a care…. BUT doing none of these things with enough consistency to call it improvement.


More later.

caffeinated pre-sleep

insomnia inspired by the desire to taste something caffeinated – my first choice was a little refrigerated coffee but I was strangely observed by the cashier and went for the rambunctious antidote of sleep that is a guarine-taurine-caffeine clusterfuck energy drink, with the heart palpitations as labelled on the side for the surefire sign you are “feeling it.” Continue reading